


Surrender

by oneatatime



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Beware Spoilers, Multi, Post Infinity War, for a very small part of that movie, ha ha ha not inconsequential at all, not small because inconsequential, small because so much else happened, this is a reaction fic, whimpers off into the sunset
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-21
Updated: 2018-07-21
Packaged: 2019-06-13 21:58:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15374250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneatatime/pseuds/oneatatime
Summary: Who needs sleep, anyways?Post Infinity War.





	Surrender

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CurryJolokia (capra)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/capra/gifts).



Sleep is stupid, because if people sleep, then they're prey to all the crap in their heads that they mostly manage to keep down during the day. Tony tries not to sleep. After so many years of practice, he's pretty good at it. Especially without someone around to yell at him to go to bed. 

However.

However, he's aware that coffee and work and obsessing over how to undo what Thanos has done are not gonna keep him afloat forever. He's already crashed a few times since finally limping his way back to Earth. First in his lab, second on Clint's sofa with a handknitted blanket thrown over him, then in a McDonald's of all places, and on the sofa again.... Anyway. Point is, he's slept now and then. For want of anything better, they're all mostly staying at Clint's place. In between stressing, in between checking on friends and family. Laura's - Laura's gone, so the three kids are all sleeping in with Clint, and there are unfortunately plenty of spare beds. 

None of them are coping well. 

In a way it's easier overnight, because it's expected that you'll be a useless sack of shit when you're supposed to be sleeping. Tony feels marginally less like he should be able to do something, feels marginally more like the blind alleys he's working on might possibly be worth something. There's at least a 0.0000000001% chance that they'll figure something out in the next twenty years, though Bruce occasionally says optimistically that it could be a 0.0000000002% chance. 

It's just past 3. Thor's out back with the little furry asshole (from Tony, that's not an insult) and the blue girl. Pulsar? Nebula, that's it. She has some impressive tech. He can hear Rocket speaking in low tones, and it's good to know that someone's got them both. Not like Tony knows what the hell to say to either of them. Yeah, he's only just met Nebula. He's known Thor for years. Should be able to help someone he's known for that long, who's lost all his family, and his planet. Anyway. It's good that Rocket's out there. 

Clint's snoring in the main bedroom, and there's an occasional little _fzzt_ or a triumphant trumpet chord as one of his kids is quietly playing some puzzle game on an iPad. 

Bruce is murmuring to himself in another of the bedrooms. Every now and then there's a beep from the portable interface that Tony brought out for him. His own is blinking at him at eye level, with a complicated formula waiting for his input in blue and light blue. Tony looks at it, then growls under his breath and slams a fist through it, blanking it. 

"All okay?" 

Tony looks over at Nat, still curled up in a neat ball on the horrible floral sofa. Eyes still shut. "Yeah, all good," he says bitterly. Both eyes open briefly, and she gives him a _I'm sympathetic but I know there's nothing I can say_ look, and is fast asleep again within seconds. He knows she'd wake up if he really needed her, including just for company for a while. But he's fine. Nothing she can do. He's better off alone when he's like this. 

He heads to the kitchen for a glass of water. It's dimly lit by the couple lamps Clint leaves in the general areas each night. 

It's not right. This damn kitchen should be populated by Clint and Laura and their kids, being ridiculously obnoxious and loving. Just like him and - and also - 

Shut up, brain.

He needs to fix this. He savagely fills the Simpsons glass from the faucet, because out here the tap water is just fine, then drinks. As he puts the glass on the side of the sink, he hears a - a not-noise. 

Frowning, he turns. 

The smallest bedroom. There's a familiar blue-clad back on the wooden bed, and a tension in it that's also too familiar. Someone who should be, by rights, calling out a name. Or heaving for breath. Or gripping the covers tightly. But no, there's nothing like that, just tension. 

Cap's having a nightmare. 

Tony wishes he didn't understand what it's like to bite yourself back, even if he doesn't have Cap's army experience. He also wishes, devoutly, that he wasn't the closest person. Steve needs anyone but him. Before he can even articulate all of that in his own head, he's inside the room and lightly gripping Steve's shoulder. 

"Steve? Hey. Rogers. It's a dream, buddy. Just a dream."

There's a violent shift, a panicky movement to turn over and throw off the covers, and Tony steps back. Last thing they need is for one of them to off another one. 

"Just a dream," he repeats, hands held up in a placating kind of way. He can be placating, right? He's had enough practice, with all the times that he's had to placate - 

Shut UP, brain.

"Y-yeah. Thanks," Steve says at last, passing a hand over his face. He sits up, feet on the floor, gripping the mattress next to his thighs. Looking down, and also looking exhausted, like he didn't get to take a decades long nap. Lucky bastard. 

"Anyway. Glad you're okay. I'll leave you al-"

"Tony." 

Steve looks up, and if blue eyes could spear someone then Tony really should be impaled against the wall right now. Worse than Thanos. Worse than any of it. 

Tony swallows. "Mm?" 

"Come here, would you?" 

And yes, that's Captain America, hero of the world, patting the bed next to him and reaching for Tony. That's Captain America, on the verge of tears. That's............ that's Steve Rogers, on the verge of tears, and if they're not friends right now, well, they used to be, so Tony finds himself planting his ass on the bed next to the other man. 

"I know you won't wanna hear it from me," Tony says quietly, apologetically, "but I'm sorry about Bucky." 

It's so much easier to talk about someone else. Steve's face twists, then the muscles around his eyes tense. His eyebrows draw down. "...Why wouldn't I want to hear it from you? You mean because of Howard?" 

It's a name, and it's a name Tony doesn't want to hear, but Steve means well and the world doesn't collapse when it's out. Huh. Tony nods slowly. He's not 'over' what happened, he's not okay with Bucky killing his parents, he's not okay with that whole godawful fight with Bucky and Steve. Yet it's only one of many, many pains right now. And it doesn't seem so much of a thing when it was so long ago. 

Steve's shown before that he doesn't hate Tony for all of that. That he understands that Tony has a right to feel like angry, upset, shit about everything in Sokovia and everything else. 

"Hell," Steve says, and then he's pulling Tony into a hard, fierce hug. Tony doesn't know if he's more surprised at the cussword or the hug, but after a long moment he starts - starts relaxing into it. 

"I don't hate you," he says, ridiculously. Obviously he doesn't. They're on a bed locked in one form of a passionate embrace. 

Steve laughs, and there's shakiness at the bottom of that. It sounds rusty, but none of them have laughed a lot for a while now. It's been, what, two months? Eight weeks, three days, and counting, but who's counting. "Yeah, I know. I don't hate you either." 

And then Steve does it. He continues, very soft. "I'm sorry about Pepper, and Peter." 

Tony's mouth opens in protest, and then he starts trembling. No, it's not a tremble, it's a full shake. He's actually shaking, like he's about to have a fit or something. He wants to call to Jarvis to check his vital signs and check him for epilepsy and crap, but no, that won't work, right? And Friday, he could call her, but he can't get his voice to work, and Steve seems to know what he's doing? Maybe? He has his arms around Tony, and he's stroking his hair. Not speaking. Steve's not disappearing, not like Peter, who fell to dust in his arms. Not like Pepper, who vanished without him even knowing. Steve's just holding him.

Holding him for a long, long time, until the shaking begins to stop.

Steve's shoulder is wet, and Tony's hands are fisted in the front of his shirt. 

Steve leans back a little, and palms his own face. 

Tony swallows, hard. To say thank you, because he's always been bad at that, he leans in to brush his lips very lightly across Steve's cheek. 

"I'll... I miss them. Pepper. And Peter." He pronounces the names very carefully. They haven't emerged from his lips in too long, but maybe he can say them again now. He pushes lightly at Steve's shoulder. "You should sleep." 

There's an inescapable grip around him. "So should you," Steve says hoarsely, yanking him down onto the bed. 

"Bossy!" It's the closest thing to a tease that Tony's been able to find for eight weeks and three days, but who's counting. He tchhs, then surrenders to the, "Star spangled _asshole_ ," who has hold of him. 

Steve's very warm behind him. Tony stares into the light of the lamp in the kitchen for a long moment, then surrenders again.


End file.
